Wow, what a trip. Gentle hills covered in tidy vineyards rose and fell in the embrace of a soft, cool mist in Burgundy. Each vine groaned under the weight of fat and green grapes, on the verge of turning purple and ripe.
Every now and again a turreted chateau soared over the landscape, a vigilant sentinel over acres of vinous treasure.

Then the hills flattened into a plain, the chateaux gave way to sleepy villages and the weather became steadily hotter—until the Tour Eiffel stood like an elegant piece of iron lacework glinting under the scorching sun.

We followed the slow, olive waters of the Seine to the quiet backwaters of the Ile St Louis, wandered among the grand palazzos and narrowing streets of the Marais and stood small and insignificant against the grandeur of the Senate and the Louvre.

But the countryside beckoned again and with it Monet’s garden, ablaze with the pink, white and purple of blooming summer flowers. We got lost in the secret peace of the waterlily pond, sheltered by huge weeping willows and guarded by the graceful green arch of the Japanese bridge, and it felt like stepping into a painting.

Later, the murmur of the Seine took us north to the fat fields of Normandy, the cows munching on rich emerald pasture. Apple trees laden with gleaming fruit graced the glorious gardens of ancient, thatched cottages. And the intricate spires of Rouen’s cathedral changed from taupe to golden in the dying early evening light.

It was magic. But alas, all good things come to an end, and soon, too soon, an icy breeze pushed us across the Channel and the dazzling white cliffs of Dover welcomed us back to England.
So I am back now, sad and happy at the same time. And collapsing under a pile of dirty laundry, but that’s another, far less magic story.